All We Could Swallow

Writing into dawn – sunlight finds the right side of my face. East; always east. Warmth and prism light melts away a restless night. I finish yesterday's coffee to make a new pot.

Some gifts come with a sting. Is running out of time a gift? Fantasies, dreams, and desires fill space with possibility, but also cause confusion and delusion. May we continue to dream and follow such untethering with the wake of work and openness.

The holidays loom. Excessive colored lights and inflatable Santas shred darkness all night into day. Our Judeo-Christian heritage looks a lot like consumerism and colonization. Let's go back further.

Before Jesus – before Adam and Eve and Steve and Lilith – before the sea drank all the stardust it could swallow.

Maybe cosmic wind rippled what was deep and pure.
Maybe the moon sent orgasmic energy deep into Mother Earth.
Maybe we were one cell before we were many.
Maybe that is the Good News.

The azalea leaves curl up tight like fighting fists. Grand Rapids sk turns to granite as we all try pretending we are at least half way through winter's cold kiss. Speaking of kissing . . .